Let me tell you a story
by That Kid With the Long Coat
Summary: John has done the unthinkable. First person POV. Rated for coarse language.
1. The short version

I am _fucked_.

I am _actually_ fucked.

I am actually _royally_ fucked.

Confused? Don't be. It's rather simple, if you'll allow me to explain. Would you like the short version, or the _long-as-all-fucking-hell_ one?

Long-story-short: I did the unthinkable. Basically what no one should do _ever_.

_I fell for my best friend._

What a_ fucking_ brilliant mess I fell into.

Have you ever had something like that happen?

How about when your best friend is the_ same gender_?

Yeah, a tad bit different there, am I right? 'Cause, you see, if you're like me, male, and your best mate is a female, everything could always turn out alright in the end. It's what humans are supposed to do. Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl, vice-versa. Boy and girl continue the human race.

_But what about when boy meets boy?_

You see, that's one not a whole lot of people think about, or really consider. Now, don't get me wrong, a few do. Quite a few. A lot consider girl meets girl as well, but lets focus on the hetero side here, since that's what a good majority of the world is used to. Hell, evolution made us that way, it's just meant to be. Christ, if I was born two generations ago, hell, maybe even_ one_, I'd be in a bigger fucking pickle than I am now.

And it does_ not_ help matters that my best mate just so_ fucking_ happens to be the world's greatest - and_ only_ - consulting detective, Sherlock_ fucking-perfect _Holmes. (Please excuse me if my language happens to be to much.)_  
_

Crucified Christ, with those eyes, and those cheekbones, those curly locks, and_ Jesus_, don't get me started on that neck or that mouth of his.

A lot of people would ask how I could possibly live with the man, let alone fall in love with him,_ gorgeous or not_ - he's_ that_ insufferable. Trust me, I ask myself that sometimes. But really, all you have to do is witness him in one of his better moments, and you'd understand. Just ask Molly.

And I know technically, it's fine, it's _all fine_. But you see, it's not really. Not because homosexuality is wrong -_ hell no_. Don't even get me started on that argument. It's the sheer fact that this is_ Sherlock_, the asexual man who's married to his work, whose area isn't girls, nor presumably boys, because his emotional growth is so_ fucking_ stunted that he's like a thirteen-year-old.

_Actually_, I'm extremely thankful he's emotionally stunted, for just this _one_ instance. Otherwise, if he knew, it could ruin everything.

And I'm not willing to take that chance.

I'm not willing to risk everything we have, just because I'm a_ fucking_ imbecile.

So would you like the long story now, or are you alright?


	2. A brief warning

Back for the long version, huh? Don't say I didn't warn you.

_Did_ I warn you?

I can't remember, so I'll just do it now.

There is no point to this at all. I'm just a bloke who thought he was straight until another bloke changed that. And apparently, that gives me the right to complain about it. (Well, complain may not be the right word, but I've never been very good at choosing the right one anyways.)

It's not very interesting, or spectacular, or really anything at all. It's just the joke that is my life.

Well. There you go. You've been warned.

I guess now I should start at the beginning.


	3. A Study in Irises and Detectives

We all know how it began. I assume you've read my blog. If not, I can tell you.

It all started at St Barts'. During an experiment (I can only assume). With Mike Stamford, the fucking bastard. I walked (okay,_ limped_) in, and he hardly took notice unil he was damn-well ready. We made eye contact. I tried not to panic.

_Jesus_, did I _really_ know from _that_ moment how fucked I was?

I _may_ have.

It was his eyes mainly, that gave me that initial reaction. Sharp and bright, like ice glinting in the sun. _Shit_, how to do them real justice- _are there even words available to describe them_? Or even what _colour_ they are? I've come to the conclusion that maybe they don't even _have_ a colour. Maybe they just read our minds, form an illusion based on what we think. Disguise themselves and hide, ever elusive, like the man himself. I _can_ tell you one thing though, his eyes have _never_ been brown. I can be certain of that. They're too light, too brilliant for such a muddy colour. _His_ eyes are like gems...

Wow. Two similies in one paragraph, _just_ of his eyes.

Shows you how far I'm gone, yeah?

Then- _Jesus_, I haven't even gotten to the _rest_ of him yet.

But I assume I'll cover all of that later. Back to Barts'.

I let him borrow my phone without a second's hesitation. Probably a mistake, since now he thinks he can use all of my things whenever he pleases. And a few of those things may be in my pants pockets at the time.

That time, though, he actually returned my phone when he was through with it, followed by some brilliant deduction only he could pull off. I was... impressed to say the least. I also wanted to wipe that smug grin off of Stamford's face. I think he knew what he started that day.

Actually, I am quite positive he knew.

That bastard. Remind me to get him back for it later.

And of course, after showing off, the Great Sherlock Holmes finished by wrapping that delicious neck up in that scarf, turning his coat collar up so he looked cool, then just left. Vanished out the door. But not before he asked me to live with him. And we absolutely can not forget that wink he casually threw my way.

Each and every one of you can probably guess what happened next.

I moved in.

I looked around the flat not two seconds before I knew it was my new home.

I think he knew it too.

I don't think he would have had it any other way.

Which makes it _so_ much worse.


End file.
